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A Yankee Paradise

unsung, unknown,

To beautiful tradition; even their names,
Whose melody yet lingers like the last
Vibration of the red man's requiem,
Exchanged for syllables significant

Of cotton-mill and rail-car, will look kindly
Upon this effort to call up the ghost

Of our dim Past, and listen with pleased ear
To the responses of the questioned Shade:

I. THE MERRIMACK.

Он, child of that white-crested mountain whose springs
Gush forth in the shade of the cliff-eagle's wings,

Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild waters shine,
Leaping grey walls of rock, flashing through the dwarf pine.

From that cloud-curtained cradle so cold and so lone,
From the arms of that wintry-locked mother of stone,
By hills hung with forests, through vales wide and free,
Thy mountain-born brightness glanced down to the sea!

No bridge arched thy waters save that where the trees
Stretched their long arms above thee and kissed in the breeze:
No sound save the lapse of the waves on thy shores,
The plunging of otters, the light dip of oars.

Green-tufted, oak-shaded, by Amoskeag's fall
Thy twin Uncanoonucs rose stately and tall,
Thy Nashua meadows lay green and unshorn,
And the hills of Pentucket were tasseled with corn.

But thy Pennacook valley was fairer than these,
And greener its grasses and taller its trees,
Ere the sound of an axe in the forest had rung,
Or the mower his scythe in the meadows had swung.

In their sheltered repose looking out from the wood
The bark-builded wigwams of Pennacook stood,
There glided the corn-dance the Council fire shone,
And against the red war-post the hatchet was thrown.

There the old smoked in silence their pipes, and the young
To the pike and the white perch their baited lines flung;
There the boy shaped his arrows, and there the shy maid
Wove her many-hued baskets and bright wampum braid.

Oh, Stream of the Mountains! if answer of thine
Could rise from thy waters to question of mine,
Methinks through the din of thy thronged banks a moan
Of sorrow would swell for the days which have gone.

Not for thee the dull jar of the loom and the wheel,
The gliding of shuttles, the ringing of steel;
But that old voice of waters, of bird and of breeze,
The dip of the wild-fowl, the rustling of trees!

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LIFT we the twilight curtains of the Past,
And turning from familiar sight and sound
Sadly and full of reverence let us cast

A glance upon Tradition's shadowy ground,
Led by the few pale lights, which glimmering round,
That dim, strange land of Eld, seem dying fast;
And that which history gives not to the eye,

The faded coloring of Time's tapestry,

Let Fancy, with her dream-dipped brush supply.

Roof of bark and walls of pine,

Through whose chinks the sunbeams shine,

*This was the name which the Indians of New England gave to two or three of their principal chiefs, to whom all their inferior sagamores acknow ledged allegiance. Passaconaway seems to have been one of these chiefs. His residence was at Pennacook. ·Mass. Hist. Coll., vol. iii., pp. 21, 22. "He was regarded," says Hubbard, "as a great sorcerer, and his fame was widely spread. It was said of him that he could cause a green leaf to grow in winter, trees to dance, water to burn, &c. He was, undoubtedly, one of those shrewd and powerful men whose achievements are always regarded by a barbarous people as the result of supernatural aid. The Indians gave to such the names of Powahs or Panisees."

"The Panisees are men of great courage and wisdom, and to these the Devill appeareth more familiarly than to others."- Winslow's Relation.

Tracing many a golden line

On the ample floor within; Where upon that earth-floor stark, Lay the gaudy mats of bark, With the bear's hide, rough and dark, And the red-deer's skin.

Window-tracery, small and slight,
Woven of the willow white,
Lent a dimly-chequered light,

And the night-stars glimmered down,
Where the lodge-fire's heavy smoke,
Slowly through an opening broke,
In the low roof, ribbed with oak,
Sheathed with hemlock brown.

Gloomed behind the changeless shade, By the solemn pine-wood made; Through the rugged palisade,

In the open fore-ground planted, Glimpses came of rowers rowing, Stir of leaves and wild flowers blowing, Steel-like gleams of water flowing, In the sun-light slanted.

Here the mighty Bashaba,
Held his long-unquestioned sway,
From the White Hills, far away,

To the great sea's sounding shore;
Chief of chiefs, his regal word
All the river Sachems heard,
At his call the war-dance stirred,
Or was still once more.

There his spoils of chase and war,
Jaw of wolf and black bear's paw,
Panther's skin and eagle's claw,

Lay beside his axe and bow;
And, adown the roof-pole hung,
Loosely on a snake-skin strung,

In the smoke his scalp-locks swung
Grimly to and fro.

Nightly down the river going,
Swifter was the hunter's rowing,
When he saw that lodge-fire glowing

O'er the waters still and red;

And the squaw's dark eye burned brighter,
And she drew her blanket tighter,

As, with quicker step and lighter,
From that door she fled.

For that chief had magic skill,

And a Panisee's dark will,

Over powers of good and ill,

Powers which bless and powers which ban

Wizard lord of Pennacook,

Chiefs upon their war-path shook,

When they met the steady look
Of that wise dark man.

Tales of him the grey squaw told,
When the winter night-wind cold
Pierced her blanket's thickest fold,

And the fire burned low and small,

Till the very child a-bed,

Drew its bear-skin over head,

Shrinking from the pale lights shed

On the trembling wall.

All the subtle spirits hiding
Under earth or wave, abiding
In the caverned rock, or riding

Misty clouds or morning breeze;
Every dark intelligence,

Secret soul, and influence

Of all things which outward sense

Feels, or hears or sees,

These the wizard's skill confessed,
At his bidding banned or blessed,

Stormful woke or lulled to rest

Wind and cloud, and fire and flood;
Burned for him the drifted snow,

Bade through ice fresh lillies blow,
And the leaves of summer grow
Over winter's wood!

Not untrue that tale of old!
Now, as then, the wise and bold
All the powers of Nature hold
Subject to their kingly will;
From the wondering crowds ashore,
Treading life's wild waters o'er,
As upon a marble floor,

Moves the strong man still

Still, to such, life's elements
With their sterner laws dispense,
And the chain of consequence
Broken in their pathway lies;
Time and change their vassals making,
Flowers from icy pillows waking,
Tresses of the sunrise shaking

Over midnight skies.

Still, to earnest souls, the sun

Rests on towered Gibeon,

And the moon of Ajalon

Lights the battle-grounds of life;

To his aid the strong reverses
Hidden powers and giant forces,
And the high stars in their courses
Mingle in his strife!

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THE Soot-black brows of men the yell

Of women thronging round the bed The tinkling charm of ring and shell

The Powah whispering o'er the dead!

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